Chapter Eighteen
Solange
“Isn’t Sebastian precious?” I say, looking up at Dean dreamily as we wait for an elevator.
Dean nods, a faint smile teasing the edges of his mouth. “An excellent set of lungs too.”
“I can already picture the screaming matches between him and Natalia. They’re going to be epic.”
Dean has said his goodbyes to everyone, and I’ve offered to walk him out to the lobby. One elevator has been idle since we got here, and the other started at the top and is stopping on every floor. When one finally arrives, it’s crammed with people. Of course. I raise a hand in the general direction of the folks inside, all of whom are giving us the death glare for even thinking about jumping on. “We’ll wait.”
“Let’s just take the stairs,” Dean says. “After being twisted like a pretzel in your bumper car, I could use an excuse to stretch my legs.”
I narrow my eyes at him, giving him my own death glare. “Need I remind you that you still need my help on Wednesday? Consider being nicer to the person saving your ass.”
“You’re right,” he says, pulling me into his arms and steering me in the direction of the stairwell. “Consider me reminded and appropriately chastised.” He holds me in a loose embrace, as if he’s hugging a buddy, but after the night we’ve had my reaction to his touch is decidedly not friendly. God, why does he always smell so good, no matter the scent he’s chosen to wear? With my face inches from his neck, I breathe in the smoky and sweet scents radiating off his skin, a heady combination that reminds me of toasted cinnamon sprinkled over warm apple pie. Mmm, Dean á la mode. Now that would be a yummy indulgence.
Happily basking in the warmth of Dean’s body, I’m startled when he jumps away and holds the door open. “Oh wait,” he says, wide-eyed, a theatrical performance looming. “I’m not supposed to be this close to you, right? You didn’t use your safe word.”
I should thank him for the reminder, but that would be hypocritical of me since I have zero interest in paying attention to it. I move past the threshold and look back at him. “Is this your way of telling me you’ll only touch me if we’re pretending? Good Lord, Chapman. That’s no way to make a woman feel wanted.”
I precede him down the stairs, and as I’m approaching the second-floor landing, he gently tugs on my sleeve, halting my progress. I don’t turn back. I simply wait, a team of miniature gymnasts somersaulting in my belly.
“Is that what you think?” he asks. “That I don’t want you?”
I was kidding, although it seems I missed the mark. I’d love to see his face, but I’m afraid to move. Is his expression as intense as his voice? Are his hazel eyes crystal clear, or are they cloudy with desire? Damn, damn, damn. What’s the point of asking these questions? We should be going our separate ways so I can rejoin my family upstairs. When I spin around to tell him just that, he’s right there, a single step above me, his back against the railing and his face close enough that I can see the exquisite details of his features. And yes, his expression is intense. And his eyes are most certainly clouded with desire. “Don’t mind me, okay?” I don’t meet his gaze as I explain. “It’s been a long day, and I’m exhausted. You probably shouldn’t take anything I say to heart.”
“And yet that’s exactly what I’m doing,” he says without hesitation. “At the very least I need to clarify that I want you so fucking much, I’m aching to touch you right now. But . . .” Instead of finishing the sentence, he squeezes his eyes shut. Still, it’s not hard to figure out what he isn’t saying.
But . . . we’re not right for each other.
But . . . you’re leaving.
But . . . if we act on our attraction, one of us will get hurt—and that person is you.
I’m gripped by the certainty that a big mistake is gaining momentum and barreling in my direction. Honestly, it would be great if someone slapped some sense into me, but I have a niggling suspicion that when it comes to Dean, I’m steadily moving past the point of logic and knowingly exposing myself to heartbreak. I’m smarter than this. I know I am. I’m not interested in being anyone’s temporary diversion, and Dean’s made it abundantly clear that romance isn’t in his wheelhouse. So why is it so damn hard to listen to the warning signs?
Because you like him, a voice in my head says. And you’re attracted to him. And his transparency is disarming; you can’t very well tell yourself he duped you if he’s been honest about his outlook on love from the outset.
Thinking back to everything that’s happened tonight, from our interactions at the sex party to the physical discomfort he put himself through so Natalia could experience the labor she’d envisioned, it all reminds me that Dean has been open and honest and present for me in every way. And right now, in this dimly lit stairwell, after a chaotic night that still isn’t over, I want his lips on mine once more. Just once more. So I move up to his step, then rest my hand against his stomach. “Shove all those thoughts out of your mind and do it, then. Touch me.”
“Solange.”
There’s wonder in his voice, as if I’ve given him a gift he never expected to receive.
I drop my forehead to his chest. Suddenly his fingers are in my hair, leisurely massaging my head, until he lifts my chin so we’re facing each other. “May I . . . kiss you?” The question breaks in his throat and shatters my last defenses.
“Yes.”
He descends a step, then takes my hand and guides me to him, the change in position placing us centimeters apart. A kiss to Dean isn’t just a meeting of mouths. No, it begins with a low drag of his thumb across my lower lip, transitions to a soft peck above my Cupid’s bow, then continues with a brush of our cheeks as he breathes me in.
I wait and wait and wait, until I can’t wait any longer, and soon I’m tugging him closer and assuming control. I bite his lip, not hard but strong enough to let him know I want more. Faster, fiercer, harder. Give it to me, I’m saying with my hands, my lips, my teeth. He obliges, his hand gripping my neck and his mouth setting a deliciously thorough yet frenzied pace.
“Touch me,” I whisper when we come up for air. “Everywhere.”
This close, I can see that his pupils are dilated and his eyes are so darkened by lust they appear brown. We stare at each other, our gazes bouncing from feature to feature as he lifts my shirt and slips his hand under the waistband of my pants.
I gasp, my mouth going slack in anticipation. Trembling with desire, I try to urge him with my eyes. Yes, touch me there. Make me wet. Make me come.
A finger glides over my underwear, along my cleft, then another finger joins in as the first retraces its steps.
“Please,” I say against his cheek.
Those fingers delve under the fabric, and finally, finally, settle on my clitoris, drawing torturously slow circles there. Oh God. It’s both not enough and too much. I let out a long moan, my entire body tingling.
“Like this?” he asks, his breath feathering over my eyes.
“Yes, just like that,” I whisper.
“Ah Jesus, Solange. You’re so soft.”
My skin’s taut, the tension in my arms and legs stretching it to its capacity, the sensations evoked by Dean’s touch having nowhere to go so they build and build and build inside me.
“Let me take you home,” he says, his voice rough and urgent as his talented fingers dip inside my slick heat. “Spend the night with me.”
The word yes hovers in the air, until the sound of someone pushing the metal release on a door above us echoes in the stairwell and yanks me out of the moment.
He draws his hand out of my pants and gingerly straightens my top. I blink my eyes open and try to focus on our surroundings. We’re in a stairwell, not all that different from the one I was in when I discovered his fiancée three weeks ago. That parallel is the splash of cold water I need. “I should get back. They’re probably wondering where I am. Let’s just forget . . .” I gesture around me as if to say us. Let’s just forget us. As an idea. As a possibility.
He clears his throat, then nods once. “Yeah, I hear you.” His face is flushed, and his lips are wet, and his hair is adorably mussed. Note to self: The more disheveled his appearance, the harder it is to resist him.
I brush off my pants for no reason whatsoever. “Well, one more get-together, and we’re done, right?”
He raises a brow at that, though I didn’t mean it to sound so final. I’m about to clarify, but my mother appears at the top of the landing.
What the hell?
How?
Why?
“Filha, are you leaving?” she asks, her gaze darting to Dean before it returns to me.
“No, I’ll be up in a sec.”
“Okay, good. I wanted to ask you if you still wanted to go to the community garden tomorrow.”
“Yes, I do. And we can talk about it later. Because I’ll be up in a sec, okay?” I widen my eyes, but she pretends not to understand that I’m asking her to make herself scarce, which immediately makes me suspicious of her motivation for being here.
“Oh, no problem.” She winks at Dean. “Nice to meet you, filho.”
“You too, Ms. Pereira,” he says, a hint of amusement in his tone.
Then my mother spins around, pushes open the exit door, and waltzes out of sight.
I shake my head. “I don’t even know what that was about.”
“A mother’s prerogative, I think,” he says, giving me a knowing smile.
“A mother’s nosiness, you mean.” I flick a thumb over my shoulder. “Anyway, I should get going. Talk to you soon.”
“Bye, Solange,” he calls after me.
“Bye,” I say, giving him a seemingly carefree wave as I scurry up the stairs.
Sure, I can’t change what just happened between us, but I can make sure nothing else happens. It’ll be fine. Absolutely fine. We’re only one outing away from being done with our fake dating arrangement, then Dean and I can move on with our regular lives.
Separately, of course.
* * *
Sunday afternoon, my mother and I meet up at the Lanier Heights Community Garden project site. Preparing four dozen plots of land, each measuring approximately fifty square feet, should be easy enough, but we’re experiencing a crisis at the management level—specifically too many cooks and only one kitchen.
Cindy, a middle-aged white woman who thinks one can never wear enough animal prints, and Danilo, a young Filipino short-order cook who still hasn’t sent me his supposedly world-famous chicken adobo recipe, have been debating the design for a half hour now.
Beside me, my mother sighs, then whispers into my ear: “The plots need to be separated with fencing or they’re going to get contamination.”
“Cross-contamination, you mean?”
“Yes. And using patio stones would be too hard on everyone’s knees when they’re gardening. Grass is better.”
“Why don’t you say something, then?”
She shrugs. “This isn’t my garden. I’m just here to help you.”
That’s what she thinks. She’s here to be inspired. And hopefully to reinvigorate her interest in flowers and plants. But so far, she isn’t moved by the discussion, and I can’t say that I blame her. Cindy’s and Danilo’s voices are rising, and a third volunteer, whom I don’t know, looks as though he’s about to enter the fray. Enough.
I clear my throat to get their attention. “So as I understand it, regardless of the plot setup, we need to turn the soil, right?”
They all nod.
“Can my mother and I work on that while you continue chatting about this?” I peek at my watch. “Because we’ll need to get going soon.”
And we’re tired of standing around.
“Okay, yes,” Cindy says. “We can use everyone’s help with that.” She points at the far-right corner of the garden. “You can find compost over there.”
“Great. We’ll get started.”
Ten minutes later, Mãe and I have dispersed a layer of compost over our chosen area and are flipping the soil with handheld spades. The repetitive task allows us to engage in conversation with relative ease.
“Viviane can’t stop talking about Sebastian,” my mother says with a smile. “She’s so happy.”
“We’re all happy. He’s the first baby of the next generation. It’s a big deal.”
“I hope he gets to grow up with his cousins, like you did. I can see myself spoiling all of them. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Hmm, yeah,” is my reply, partly because I don’t think she’d appreciate anything else I’d say about this subject. Her question, though, only reinforces what I already suspected: Staying in DC probably isn’t the best decision for either of us. I need to chart my own course, and she needs to redefine herself as more than someone’s mother. Even now, she’s waiting for me to return home so she can step into the only role she’s ever known. She’s sacrificed so much and for so long that I don’t think she knows how to do or be anything else. She had dreams, though. Before my father. Before me. Before her sisters convinced her that opening the shop would help provide for us all. Now she’s stuck. And if my mother continues to use our relationship as her lodestar, I’m afraid she won’t ever reach for her dreams again. She deserves her own life. Her own happiness too. I want this for her more than anything else.
Yes, my mother and her sisters built the familial village my cousins and I grew up in, and I’m grateful for what they did for us. But Viviane and Mariana fully expect that they’ll eventually pass the leadership to us, whereas my mother appears reluctant to relinquish her caretaking role. And sure, raising kids, whether biological or adopted, isn’t out of the question, but I’m in no rush, and I certainly don’t expect my mother to devote the lion’s share of her time to looking after them.
“Tell me about Dean,” she says, not meeting my eyes as she deftly changes the subject. “He seems sweet.”
“He’s a friend,” I say flatly. “That’s it, Mãe. Don’t get any ideas.”
She draws back and rests her hands on her lap. “So defensive, filha.” She crinkles her nose. “What’s the project you’re working on together?”
“It’s a long story.”
“We have a lot of composto.”
I can’t help snorting. “Touché.” I give her the rundown of my and Dean’s exploits, and her mouth gapes in the same way mine did when Dean first proposed his scheme. When I’m done, she shakes her head. “Wow, wow, wow. Que confusão!”
“Believe me, I know.”
“So why can’t he pretend to be your boyfriend when Cláudia comes next weekend? Instead of Brandon?”
I shake my head like a testy parrot. “No, no, no. We have one more date left, then I need to move on.”
“Because you like him,” my mother says as she studies my reaction to her statement.
“Because there’s no point in prolonging the inevitable. I’m leaving soon. Maybe.”
She seizes on the word maybe and perks up. “What do you mean ‘maybe’? Did you hear something from the school?”
I wish I could lie to my mother, but every time I fix my mouth to do so, it rejects the attempt, as if my brain has figured out how to make it physically impossible. “Yes, they gave me a permanent offer.” I drop the spade and put up my hands. “But please wait, wait, wait, because I’m ninety percent certain I’m not going to take it.”
“Why?” she asks on a huff.
“Lots of reasons, Mãe. I’d be committing to staying in DC, and I’m not sure this is the best place for me. Plus, they want me to implement a new curriculum, and what if it doesn’t work out? Or the students don’t stick with the program? I don’t want to find myself stuck if this turns out to be a bad decision.”
She knits her brows, and a line appears between them. “So you’re going to assume all of those bad things will happen and that’s it?”
I groan. Now we’re both frustrated. “It’s just that I don’t want to make a bad decision and find myself wondering how the hell I got off course.”
She looks down at her hands and flexes them. “That’s what you think happened to me.”
Her voice is soft and laced with hurt, and now I want to smack myself with the spade. “Mãe, no, I couldn’t be prouder of you than I already am. But you gave up enough, and I worry that you’re waiting for me to fix my life so you can know what to do with yours.”
“I’m your mother,” she says, exasperated.
“Of course, Mãe. But that’s not all you are. Remember you said you wanted to grow flowers?” Florticulture, she called it once. She even spent summers working at the Jardim Botânico in Rio when she was young to cultivate that interest.
She whips her head around and laughs, recognition dawning on her face. “Is that what we’re doing here?”
“I just thought it would be a way to help spark your interest in growing flowers again. Maybe as a career.” I drop my head. “But I can see I just made a mess of things.”
“No, this was kind of you.” She takes my hand. “But, filha, I didn’t give up anything I wasn’t willing to give up. I had you, and I did what I needed to do because I love you with all my heart. I don’t regret a single day.” Her voice is fierce, as if it’s important that I understand the strength of her conviction on this point. “And listen, I’m not going to tell you what to do with your life, but please let me worry about mine.”
“But I’m your daughter,” I say, mirroring her exasperation from moments ago.
“See that?” she says, squeezing my chin. “That’s how I feel about you!”
Ugh. She’s too damn smart for her own good.
“Let me ask you something,” she says. “Did you tell Dean about this offer?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Ah, the better question is, why wouldn’t you?”
Shit. My mother’s blowing my mind today. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to tell Dean about the offer, but I chose not to. Because what if the possibility of exploring a relationship with Dean factors into my decision-making, and that, too, turns out to be a bad choice on my part? I mean, there’s no what if about it. That would be a bad decision on my part.
When I don’t respond to her rhetorical question, she adds, “You know, I think the more something’s important to us, the more we feel we’ll lose if it doesn’t work out. So we convince ourselves not to want the thing. That goes for your job, and maybe Dean too.” She points at her feet. “These sneakers? They’re old. Feio. It was easy to choose them this morning because I didn’t care if they got messed up. But if I only had nice shoes? The decision about which ones to wear would have been much harder.”
“I’m not following,” I say, shaking my head. “Dean’s a nice pair of shoes?”
“Something like that,” she says with a grin.
I pick up the spade again and plunge it through the dirt in frustration. Even now, I’m wondering what Dean’s doing. Is he at work on a Sunday? Probably. Or is he cooking in his meticulously well-kept kitchen? Reading a brief? Dammit, this is a problem. So yeah, Dean’s something, all right. I just don’t know what—and my gut tells me it’s best if I keep it that way.